Lorkhan's Legacy ((Formerly Daedra, Kings and Dragon)
by robhumph
Summary: Alduin is dead, the Third Almderi Dominion lies defeated in the field and reeling from the results of its bloody rise to power. But peace only reigns in Mundus, and even then only barely. In Oblivion the Princes become aware that the Plane of Ice and Fire, once thought empty and barren, throngs with life. Only chaos can follow in the wake of their ambitions. ((OCs & canon chars))
1. Sanguine - 1

**So, here's my second attempt at the whole Elder Scrolls - Game of Thrones crossover thing. For those who haven't seen the update for the other one, or are here the first time, I became unhappy with both the direction and the overall quality of the first attempt. Looking back it's clear I was still finding my feet as a writer, though that really hasn't changed much, only this time I'm vaguely certain I have the correct shoe size.**

 **Another reason for the change, which is probably more important than the others, is that I have completely lost my patience with the show as it stands. First 4 seasons are still excellent but I imagine a lot of you already know my feelings on 5,6 and 7. That means that this particular incarnation of the crossover will be primarily book based as I still enjoy those and they hold a place of pride on my bookshelf beside books on the Plantagenet dynasty.**

 **Before I forget, the setting! Yes, the setting. Our story begins a decade following the end of the Dragon Crisis and all seems well in the realms of men in Tamriel, the Elves lie defeated in the fields of Cyrodiil and peace reigns once again, if only fate would allow this to last.**

 **Anyway, enough rambling, hope you enjoy the read.**

 ****I own nothing****

* * *

 ** _Sanguine_**

The tongues of mortals did not have a name for the varied pocket realms that made up the Plane of Sanguine, Daedric Prince of debauchery, sin, greed and other delicious excesses. The most they did was name the few they had had the pleasure of visiting. Instead, they were as a whole merely called Sanguine's Realm, which was as accurate as one could get.

The pocket realm that Sanguine had chosen to manifest in at this moment was simply called the Pleasure Garden, named as such by a certain Imperial author in the Third Era. Not that this mattered to Sanguine as he sat, or more precisely draped himself, on his ostentatious throne, watching proceedings in the mortal world with great interest.

His little prank was masterful, elegant and at the same time simple. All it had taken was manifesting in Tamriel (Auri-Els' attempt to seal Mundus away from Oblivion had not been as successful as he might have liked) and from there challenging a local to a drinking competition, the alcohol would do the rest. And that it most certainly had.

The Nord who had so courageously taken up the challenge was currently persuading a rather unpleasant Hagraven to part with the engagement ring he had given the creature in order to return it to the original owner, whom he had already paid handsomely to purchase her silence on the subject to his wife. Oh, how that had made Sanguine chuckle.

Now all that had to be done was to wait for the fellow to finish his business there and make his way to the Misty Grove via a fort belonging to some of Sanguines' more... enthusiastic followers, they would make a worthy sacrifice for the prank Sanguine reasoned. Considering the progress the Nord had made so far, the wait shouldn't be long at all.

Sanguine pushed himself off of the throne, practically dismounting it like a horse. As he did so, the image of Mundus fell to the ground and vanished in a puff of red smoke.

The Pleasure Garden had a purpose beyond that of its boundless beauty and relative seclusion, for it housed the roots of the Rose, the flower planted only a few delectable moments after Lorkhans' heart had been torn from his body and sent careening into what would become the second tower, and the very beginning of time. From this flower came one the Daedric Princes' prized possessions, a staff that had sown such mayhem and merriment across Mundus, the Sanguine Rose. And just as luck would have it, the new one was ready for plucking.

As he bent to pluck the magnificent rose, a familiar sensation came over him. Someone had entered the Pleasure Garden, and not just anyone. No, the new presence he felt was one of his fellow Princeps. Their identity was revealed near instantly to Sanguine, and he straightened to greet them, a friendly smile growing on his lips.

"Hircine!" Sanguine exclaimed jovially as the Daedric Prince of the Hunt materialised before him. "It has been too long since my realm has basked in your presence friend!" Though it was impossible to tell the expression that the physical manifestation of Hircine bore behind the stag skull it wore, Sanguine could already tell he was not in a partying mood. When no response came, Sanguine persisted. "Do pull up a throne, Hircine, and enjoy some sweet wine with me, we can await the results of my plan together. I assure you, you will find it most entertaining."

Hircine did not pull up a throne, nor did he accept the conjured wine, instead he looked to the Sanguine Rose and then slowly back to its owner. Gradually, the skull wearing Prince crossed his arms, only then opening his mouth to speak. "If you would kindly double check the fingers of the mortal you are... pranking, Sanguine."

With a frown, Sanguine wondered what in Oblivion Hircine was getting at with the request. "Fine," He threw up his arms. "I'll humour you." He conjured up his view of the mortal realm, for now forgetting about the Rose. The Nord in view was the same as before, though now with specks of Hagraven blood adorning his chainmail and feathers dotting his face, she had been a feisty one. The fingers too were the same as far as Sanguine could tell, right down to the ring... oh. "... He carries your ring." Sanguine groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And what have I told you about those who bare my gifts in your games?"

Another groan escaped Sanguine. "Do not seek to directly include them, only if they drag themselves in. Fine!" He threw up his arms. "I'll go down there and call this whole thing off. I swear I did not know he was one of yours and that ring of yours is not exactly easy to spot, any chump with a decent smith could decorate their silver rings with a wolf head." The Rose would have to wait, another idea formulated, the groundwork laid, cultists placed in another set of ruins, work work work.

Hircine at least has some welcome news at long last. "You need not call the entire hunt off, I merely wish to add some conditions."

"It's not a hunt, Hircine." Sanguine speedily corrected, he always did call these sorts of things hunts, a force of habit mayhaps. But with the notion of conditions raised, Sanguines disappointed frown receded, replaced now by one of delightful curiosity. "Oh? And those are? Do tell."

"First, you shall not give him the Rose." Well, that was a given. "And the other, I request a slight favour."

A broad smile spread across Sanguine's face. "I'm all ears, Hircine."

For once, Hircine hesitated. "I will need him transported elsewhere."

"And where would I be sending him?" Sanguine pressed, smile still firmly affixed to his face. This was an odd request. Usually, if a Daedric Prince required a champion in Mundus they either directed an existing one or chose a new champion from stock local to the objective, mortals willing to bend to the whims of the Princeps were hardly rare.

Hircine sighed, whatever the request was, it was far out of the norm. "The Plane of Ice and Fire."

Sanguine's smile vanished in an instant, finding itself replaced with a bored scowl. "There? That Plane has been bone dry since Auri-El created the second Tower. Dozens of Kalpas and nothing, just the centres of heat and cold Magnus experimented with." To say that barren expanse of nothing had fallen out of everyone's notice, Et'Ada and Mortal alike. Oh, there had been attempts by a few to do something with it, but all had quickly grown bored and moved back to their own realms where they might exert more potent control. After all, why bother with a failed prototype when every Plane of Oblivion was endless like Aetherius itself.

"Here's the thing." Hircine began after a short silence while he let Sanguine show the appropriate disdain towards the plan. "Meridia tells me she felt something off in the waters of Oblivion and thought to check on the old project..." Ah, so this was Meridia's doing, of course. Sanguine remembered something about her being one of Magnus' chief assistants during the whole ordeal, makes sense she'd have something to do with this.

"And?"

"It's been populated."

Well... That changes everything.

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 **Thanks for sticking with it. Feel free to leave reviews, I read and take into account every single one.**


	2. Eadric - 1

**Hello again. Here we go for chapter 2 and to save all of you having to read me drone on about changes and such (basically everything) I'll be doing that down the bottom.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

 ****I own nothing****

* * *

 _ **Eadric**_

Eadric held back his deep-seated desire to curse Sanguine's name as he crashed to the floor, instead a grunt left him. "Just go through, it will be quite painless." Sanguine had promised him, a bold-faced lie as it turned out to be. Eadric sat himself up and checked to see if anything was broken. Nothing seemed to be, thank the divines, so there was some small measure of good news to be had.

How Eadric had let Sanguine talk him into this was close to a frustrating mystery for him. With no other options really open to him, Eadric blamed the wine he had consumed. Clearly, it had been talking for him those few moments ago which already felt like an age away. He was sure it had made the entire endeavour seem so reasonable. A new land to spread the gift of Hircine to, what could possibly go wrong? Of course, it was still within the realm of possibility that this was all an elaborate continuation of the prank Sanguine has sucked Eadric into in the first place. He certainly wouldn't put it past the hedonistic twat.

His brooding was cut short, however, as a voice from somewhere behind him barked. "You There!"

Though his vision had been blurred by whatever Sanguine had done to bring him here, Eadric turned to look at who had called to him. "Aye?" He could not make anything out clearly, though it did seem from both his surroundings and the feeling of the ground that he was in a wood of some kind.

"Explain why you are in these woods, so armed?" So he certainly was in a wood, that was good to know. Of the one who had demanded an answer, though, he could only make out the vaguest shape of a man in golds and reds atop a horse.

Eadric ummed and erred for a few moments as he rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. "Can't say I know that myself in truth." The rubbing seemed to work and at last Eadric's vision began to clear somewhat.

"Something to hide then?" The man asked again. Though the precise details were still difficult to make out, it became very clear that he was decked in what could only be described as the most ostentatious armour Eadric had ever seen, easily putting the walking travesties the Elves wore to shame. It was either made from the same material the Dwemer used in their crafts, or was gilded in gold, for there didn't seem to be a single instance of simple steel showing, and whoever this was would have to be a fool to have armour made purely from the precious metal. Even the helm was flamboyant, being modelled in the shape of a sabre cat or some similar creature.

"No, nothing like that..." Eadric said as he tried to stand himself up. It was only as he righted himself that a headache struck him, throbbing pain pounding his skull. "Ugh... No. No. Just lost following a night to remember." He swayed slightly as he stood, trying to ignore the torment from within his own head.

The other man merely laughed, mockingly. "My, my. Is it a drunken giant that stands before me?" His laugh stopped as a blade slid from its scabbard at his side. "Still don't believe you though, giant. There are no inns or taverns for leagues around. Unless..." The man pushed his horse onwards, stopping only a few short feet away from Eadric. Soon, a blade tip was pointed at Eadric's chest. "These Northern lords know little law. Could be that you are part of a bandit brotherhood. I hope you are, you look like you may pose a challenge."

Eadric sighed. He was being called not only a drunkard but also a brigand. "I'm no bandit." He half growled through gritted teeth, though the effect was likely not overly intimidating as he still had a left hand massaging his aching temple.

"Really? That is good to hear. But I cannot take your words alone as proof of this, can I?"

"What else can I offer except my words?" Eadric asked, headache finally subsiding, now only to be replaced by growing anger. "Is it gold you want?"

Beyond them both, men snickered and a few laughed openly, which drew a scathing look from the golden one. "I have no need for gold." He said, looking back to Eadric. Slowly, he raised the tip of the sword to be just under Eadric's neck. "Do you even know who I am?"

"Can't say I do."

That brought a scowl from the other man. "You are an ignorant one. I am Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard. You will show the respect due to one of the seven." He said it with a haughty tone and at the same time sat straighter in his saddle.

Eadric had no idea what the man was going on about. Sir was a common term used for a superior, but a Kingsguard, whatever that may be, was alien to him.

When he gave no reply, the scowl deepened and his eyes, a vibrant green, darkened. "You cannot possibly be of the Kingdoms and not know what a Kingsguard is, or not understand the import of my name. Mayhaps you are of the Wildlings from beyond the Wall, or elsewise from the Isle of Ib. You have the look of some I have seen in the docks, save you are much taller. Either way..." The sword point that had been trained on Eadrics' neck came closer, now touching the flesh with its point. It took every ounce of self-control to stop Eadric from grabbing it, but he was hopelessly outnumbered, even if he could get to his axe or call upon Hircine's gift. "... Be you bandit or foreigner, you will surrender yourself to us. The King can pass judgement on you."

Eadric's eyes narrowed. "You wish to take me prisoner?" His voice was laced with a growl more like that of a wolf than a man.

The other did not seem to notice that, nor care at the growl itself. "I wish to lay you low where you stand." All humour was gone from his voice now. "But it is my duty as a knight of the Kingsguard to bring you before the King. A knight cannot dispense the king's justice." He said with some bitterness.

"Seems I have no choice." Eadric muttered, glancing at the hilt of the blade held against his neck.

Now, the smirk returned to Lannister's face. "No, you don't." He lifted his left hand and gestured for some of the men behind him to come forward. "Gather his arms." He ordered curtly, before waving the tip of his blade, only narrowly missing the flesh of Eadric's neck as it went. "Move then."

And that was how Eadric found himself, not five minutes in a new land at the behest of his lord Hircine, being guided to a large camp as a prisoner. They did not bind him or shackle him, instead choosing to rely on the spears and swords that the riders carried to keep him in check. At first only one bothered to level an iron-tipped spear at his back as they lead him on through the wood. It was only when they came upon the camp proper that more felt the need to bring their own weapons to bear on him.

The camp, if such a term could even be used for such a large encampment, was a wash of colour and finery that Eadric would usually only see in Cyrodiil or High Rock. He could not truly take it in though, or even appreciate it, for throughout it all, the urge within Eadric to call upon the gift and rip and tear into their bodies steadily grew. Resisting it was a struggle, every passing step it felt like his blood boiled that much hotter and brighter. It burned ever more fiercely as many within the camp turned to look upon the large stranger, some with suspicion, some with curiosity, and some even with a more appraising eye.

The parade continued along the length of the central path of the camp, a wide line of churned up mud and gravel that had once likely been a field of green grass. Down it lay the largest of the tents and pavilions, some even larger than the homes of Whiterun. The largest, however, was right at the end of the makeshift street. A magnificent giant of gold and black cloth, of a size comparable to that of the Bannered Mare inn in Whiterun, if not bigger. And that particular pavilion, it seemed, was the destination.

Eadric was led into the pavilion, still held at spear point by a few men, though most lingered outside. Though he cared little for it, the interior was just as opulent as the outside, with tables, chairs, and rich golden rugs covering the floor. In fact, it could easily be said that the decoration was finer here than even the halls of Dragonsreach or the Blue Palace, for it was that ostentatious. Eadric did not consider it for long, his attention was instead garnered by the lone occupant, a man of large girth and ink black hair butchering a great stag.

The man did not look up as he spoke, and his tone suggested he did not appreciate the interruption. "Tell me the carriage has been fixed or bugger off."

Jaime Lannister merely stared at the man for a short while. "Your grace." He eventually said to get the butchers attention. Clearly, this must be the King.

"Bah. What do you want, Kingslayer?" He asked as he picked up a rag to wipe his hands. It was only when he turned to look at the party that he stopped, and even then not for long. "Who's this?"

Eadric himself did not answer, carefully aware of the iron-tipped spears mere inches from his back. Instead, Lannister rattled on about the tale of his finding. Apparently, Sanguine's method of getting Eadric here was not as gentle in either direction, for along with him faceplanting the earth as he arrived, a loud bang had apparently heralded his presence to the world. He raised some protest when Lannister called him a drunkard fool, but his words were silenced before they left his mouth by a sharp jab into his back by a spear point that was thankfully stopped by his mail armour.

The King laughed when Lannister mentioned that Eadric did not know who he was, his double chin wobbling as he did from beneath his beard. "Hah! The Kingslayer is sore that not everyone knows his name? Your pride that easily wounded, Lannister?" He threw the bloody rag to the table and grabbed a nearby goblet, taking a long, greedy gulp from it. "Bring him closer, I'd have a better look at him."

With those words, Lannister stepped aside and the few who now held Eadric at spear point pushed him toward the other man, who looked him up and down as he neared, sizing him up. "Heh. Real big one you are. Bigger than Joffrey's Clegane I'd say. Mayhaps not the other one though." He hummed for a moment and waved off the men surrounding Eadric. "Put those down. I'm not some craven Lannister to need people with steel at their necks to talk to them."

"Your grace?" Ser Jaime said uncertainly, eyeing Eadric.

"Put them down!" The King bellowed when the men hesitated. To a man, they now obeyed, raising the points of their spears upwards and resting their ends on the ground. "Good." He seethed, turning back to the stag carcass and picking the knife up again to return to his skinning and butchering. "So. You've no idea how you got here?" He asked Eadric as he carved.

Eadric glanced at the men surrounding him for a moment. "Aye." He lied again, doubtless, none here would accept an explanation involving magic, for he had seen little evidence of it being here. Not one among the men who had apprehended him was a mage. Even more tellingly, at least to Eadric's mind, the very air around him felt somewhat empty, as if something important but forgotten was missing. "Drink will do that to one's memory."

The King chuckled at that. "Hah. True, very true. Lannister, leave us, and take your men with you."

Ser Jaime protested, albeit only mildly. "Your grace, he could be any manner of outlaw."

"And you disarmed him, did you not?" The King retorted. "Or is that one carrying all that because he forgot how to fasten a sword belt?" He gestured with a bloody knife to the man that held Eadric's weaponry. "Put them beside this beauty and begone. I'd talk with him without your smug face watching me, Kingslayer."

Ser Jaime looked to protest again, but quickly relented and waved for his men to do so. With that done, he stalked out of the pavilion.

When both Eadric and the King were finally alone, both men visibly relaxed. "Pah. Right prick that one, I can tell you. Doesn't care a fig for me, but he tries to keep up appearances, for the sake of what little honour he thinks he still has."

Eadric raised a brow at that. "And yet he is your guard?" He asked, unsure if he should use the 'your grace' or not.

"He is my goodbrother, and my wife is fond of him." The King answered as he carefully removed the hide from the stag. "Are you surprised I would remove my guards while you are here? Even if you could get to your weapons before I gut you, you would not get out of this camp alive."

"And if I didn't care for that? If I really was an outlaw I would be dead anyway."

The King snorted. "You're no outlaw. That's plain as day." He waved off the idea. "Your armour's too clean for a start, too rich as well. Can see from here that it's fine steel. And these..." He removed the knife from the carcass again and wiped his hands on the rag before picking up Eadric's sword from the small pile the guard had dumped the weapons in. "Forged with clear skill. An outlaw could not afford them, or steal them without getting the attention of Ned Stark up in Winterfell." The King held the weapon up, inspecting the scabbard that was decorated with traditional Nordic designs of Shor, Ysgramor and Kyne. Almost gingerly, he grasped the hilt and slid a part of the blade out. The sword, made from the finest steel in Whiterun and forged in the fires of the Skyforge, almost seemed to give off a light of its own in the sunlight that managed to pierce the pavilion. "No... this isn't the sword of an outlaw or robber knight. Who forged it?" He asked as he slid it back into the scabbard and placed it back on the table, looking now to the battle-axe that Eadric counted as his most prized possession outside of his wedding band.

"Eorlund Grey-mane." Eadric answered, a small smile spreading across his bearded face as the King inspected his gear. "It's Skyforge steel, finest you'll find in the world."

The words drew a raised brow from the King. "Grey-mane? Skyforge? These words are new to me. Either you are not from Westeros, or you're a bard." He snorted again at that last word. "No, you're a warrior, not one of them." When Eadric's expression became that of confusion, the King looked incredulous. "Gods, you're not, are you?"

"I prefer the term warrior-poet."

Despite the initial concern, the King nodded in approval. "A warrior who can sing his own songs, admirable." Remarkably, the portly king did not seem to struggle at all with the weight of the axe as he hefted it, he clearly had ample strength despite his girth. "Prefer the war-hammer myself, good for crushing bone and armour." The king admitted, carefully setting it back down atop Eadric's shield. "So, you have a name?"

"Eadric Haraldsson. And yours?"

The King laughed again and once more returned to the skinning, now almost done with it. "Aye, you're not from Westeros then. You stand before King Robert Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms. I'd list the full title, but I've no mood for the tedium. Just know that until you cross a sea at some point, I'm lord of the land you stand upon. Take your weapons back, Haraldsson. Lannister won't like it, but such things bring me pleasure..." As he spoke, he snipped off the final bit of the hide, carefully and half reverently carried it to another table and set it upon it. "Almost as much as hunting, drinking and feeling a woman's warmth." Robert then returned to the carcass, beginning the work of removing the head from the body. It was only then that Eadric noted the number of points in its antlers. Sixteen, a monarch stag according to those who mounted animals for a trade.

"Shall I call you 'your grace' then?" Eadric asked as he picked up his sword and began buckling its belt back into place. As he did, it struck him that the King might have made for the perfect follower of Hircine had he only been fitter.

Robert stopped for a brief moment and glanced at Eadric. "Honour demands it, now that you know who I am." He answered plainly. "Brings me no joy to hear you say it, not like with the smug fuck I have to call my goodfamily, or the lickspittles of the court, but it is expected of you while you are here. And by the look of you, you'll need every edge when it comes to fitting in around here. You look like you hail from Ib, only I've never seen one of them come close to six foot." He shook his head and returned to cutting and slicing through the bone and muscle. "Where do you hail from then, if not Ib or someplace else to the far east?"

That made Eadric think. He could speak the truth and say he hailed from another plane of existence altogether. He could also say that he sprouted from the ground itself and that his people had women who were like their men, bearded and the like. Both would likely result in the same response, so instead, he told what he hoped could at least be a half-truth, if not an outright lie. "I do not know where it lies in relation to here... your grace. But we call it Skyrim, or the Old Kingdom if you're feeling poetic. It is the homeland of my people, the Nords."

"Skyrim? Can't say I've ever heard of it." Robert said idly as he pulled the head off of the rest of the stag's corpse and moved it to join the pelt. "Not that I paid much attention to the maesters' lessons on the like of that anyway. But I like to think I'd remember the name of a land if the people all look like you." Wiping his hands on the rag once again, he drained what remained in his goblet and moved to a chair near the back of the pavilion, opposite the entry flap.

Eadric shrugged. He had no idea what a maester was, possibly some kind of teacher. "Not likely they'd know about it either, your grace. I'm likely the first of my kind in these lands."

"If you say so." Robert muttered, grabbing a golden jug and pouring more wine into his goblet. "Matters little to me, you seem an alright sort." He paused in his speech to drain the goblet completely and refill it. "Do you have a place to go, Haraldsson?"

"Can't say I do, your grace." Eadric answered, slipping the haft of his axe into the sling that housed it, which was usually belted to his back. "Wouldn't even know which direction to walk in to get somewhere."

The King nodded slightly, soon knocking back another goblet of wine, which didn't seem to affect him at all. "Thought as much. In that case, Eadric Haraldsson of Skyrim, why don't you join us on the road to Winterfell?"

Eadric raised a brow to the offer, it certainly wasn't something he had expected. In truth, he had expected to be in a cell somewhere by now, if the worst came to pass, or following the road aimlessly till he found somewhere if the best did. "Well... I won't turn down that offer, your grace."

"Good." Robert said with a laugh. "Wouldn't want you scaring one of Ned's Lords like you did the Kingslayer. And I'd like to see how well you can swing that axe of yours."

As Eadric thanked the King, he hoped that the rest of his time in this land would go as well as this. For all told, that hadn't gone too badly at all.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it and feel free to leave me a review.**

 **Now, onto the changes. (Just ignore this if you don't want to listen to me waffle on)  
**

 **You'll notice that essentially the two things I didn't change about the opening was who the POV char was and the fact that Jaime Lannister was the first one to speak to him. I don't know about any of you, but rereading that first bit again 2 years after writing it, I found it very bare bones and rapid for the first proper bit of the story. I actually did try rewriting the Eadric bits before I ever attempted to go over the Daedra Council (The bit that would eventually turn into a much simpler discussion between Sanguine and Hircine) and was set in the first Bran chapter. I ultimately decided against this because it felt like even more of a contrived coincidence than Eadric arriving just as the King's Arrival part of the soundtrack started blaring.**

 **This little bit at the end may become a regular thing I do at the end of chapters, or it may just be for a couple I wanted to talk about. Ultimately they'll become somewhat irrelevant because the plot of the books is slightly different from that of the show and I plan to have the Elder Scrolls bits impact the story more than it did in the original piece where everything stayed the same except with a running commentary from Eadric and Severus. In the event of that happening, I'll likely just have a natter about what directions I would have liked to explore but didn't find the time/willpower to, and where the first one was going to go if I'd stuck with it. Slight hint on that last one, very differently to where this one will ultimately end up going because of differences in the setup I hope a few of you can notice.**

 **Waffle done.**


	3. Guillaume - 1

**Welcome to the second actual chapter. Nattery stuff down the bottom.**

 **Also, just a slight warning but my proofreader has the flu at the moment and couldn't get to this one for some time. It is likely to be updated when I get a copy back from them but until then there will likely be the odd spelling error/grammar issue.**

 ****I own Nothing****

 ****Update. I have been informed that I was mistaken in how Guillaume is pronounced. While as an Englishman it is my right, nay my duty, to get French words wrong on a constant basis, I have replaced a few instances where someone has trouble saying it and arses it up.****

* * *

 _ **Guillaume**_

Compared to the Imperial City, or even any other sizeable settlement in either Cyrodiil or High Rock, King's Landing was a stench filled pit of squalor and the destitute. Those were the first thoughts that had run through Guillaume Malet's head as he wandered the street the locals called the Street of Steel, which was one of the more pleasant ones now that he thought about it. In fact, he was fairly certain that not even in Black Marsh he'd be able to find a city with plumbing as bad as this ones. But then his mind turned to why he was in the Street of Steel in the first place.

Like several other Tamrielics, or at least he assumed like several others, the Prince of the Daedra he called his lord had sent him here. The arrival itself was decidedly anti-climactic, he simply appeared on a forest path after a quick flash of white. No headaches or other maladies had affected him. No theatrics involving the locals. Rather he had wandered down it till he found a small hamlet and asked for directions to the nearest town, which just so happened to the capital of the land he had arrived in, what luck.

Guillaume had arrived at the city, bearing its name for being the place where the conquering king who founded this empire of there's had first stepped ashore, the only real obstacle he faced was finding out that room and board for a night wouldn't cost him a few gold coins. He had truly found himself surprised when the fat man had accepted a single septim and shoved a fistful of silver coins into his hands. Turns out he was substantially richer in this new land than he was back in Tamriel, where he was already fairly wealthy from a career as an accomplished spellsword.

As for why he was in the Street of Steel at this very moment, he was searching for a particular smithy, one which had been heartily recommended to him by a knight deep in his cups at the tavern Guillaume had stayed at. Tobho Mott was apparently the best armourer in the city, with clients including a brother of the king and several other members of the nobility. Such would easily suit Guillaume's purposes for now, as he was using his old career as a half cover for himself while he was here. Magic may not be accepted here but knights certainly were. And to pull off being a knight, he would need a decent suit of armour and other pieces of equipment. The price didn't overly concern him, given the vastly inflated purchasing power of gold here.

A local smith had given Guillaume a scowl when he mentioned the name of Mott but had pointed him in the direction of the largest house on the street regardless. It was, compared to the surrounding estates, an impressive structure of timber and plaster, with a second floor jutting out into the street and towering up into the air above the surrounding houses. The doors when he had come to them, were of a firm and quite clearly rich wood and with a scene of a hunt carved into it. Flanking the door as well, stood two stone knights with one of a gryphon heraldry and the other of a unicorn.

Entering the shop, a slim serving girl took note of him and rushed off to get her master without saying a word to him. Guillaume was about to mutter something about the rather rude greeting when a balding man in a garishly decorated black doublet with silver hammers upon it entered the room with a broad, toothy grin. "Welcome, welcome." He said and waved off the girl to get them both some wine. "I am Tobho Mott, Ser, please put yourself at ease. If you are in need of steel, you have come to the right shop."

Guillaume gave the man a soft smile and nodded to him. "Good. The advice I was given was correct then." He was sure that Tobho Mott would not have greeted him so warmly had he not been dressed in the finery that was expected for one of his social standing in High Rock, to the Bretons, to not walk about in silks and velvets was a sign you were of the low birth and had yet to rise. "I find myself in need of a fresh suit of mail and plate. I trust you can accommodate such?"

Tobho grinned even wider as he filled two goblets with wine and offered one to Guillaume. "More than that, Ser. My work is the finest in all of Westeros, I promise you. Visit every other smithy in the city and you will not find work to equal it. Any village smith can hammer out a shirt of mail; my work is art." He went on about a so-called 'Knight of Flowers' and how he purchased all his armour from Mott, and how he even counted the brother of the King among his patrons, but there were no words for the King himself Guillaume noted. His words on the King's brother did intrigue Guillaume though, for apparently, Mott was capable of colouring the metal itself to any shade he wishes, he called the paints and enamels of other smiths journeyman work compared to his own. The other ramblings about something called Valyrian Steel, however, did not interest him in the slightest, Tamriel likely had metals that far exceeded it already.

"I assume it will be tailored?" Guillaume asked after Mott had finished his tirade of rambling.

"Whatever it is you wish, I will make for you," Tobho said proudly, but moved his eyes to look pointedly at the pouch that hung by Guillaume's side. "However, my work is expensive, I make no apologies for that."

Guillaume just smiled. "I assure you, I can afford such."

The words didn't seem to convince Mott overly much, but the smith nodded regardless and gestured to a corner that held two mirrors, Guillaume could only imagine how much those had cost the man. "I shall just need your measurements, Ser, and we can discuss your preferences for your armour." It did not take long for the smith to get what he wanted. A mere few measurements with a dotted cord and a little muttering to himself, and he was done. "Hmm, very similar to that of his grace Prince Renly." Guillaume heard Tobho mumble as the man jotted down the numbers in a tome behind the counter of his shop. "Now, Ser, what form shall you be wishing from this shop?" It seemed most of the courtesy had left him following his doubts on Guillaume's wealth.

"A simple and good suit of plate and mail will suit me perfectly, master Mott. I require little decoration." He held up a hand as the smith's expression darkened slightly. "The place where I require your expertise. I will need to be able to move, flex, run and jump as if I were not wearing armour at all, the weight of the metal itself notwithstanding. I will also need to be able to apply it myself, but I'm sure that will be a small task compared to the last."

That brought a small smile back to Mott's face, seemed he liked a challenge. "Ah, not one to forsake mobility for protection, I see. Will there be a device adorning the steel?"

"I shall cover that with a simple tabard, I should think."

Tobho nodded and looked back down to his tome, scribbling some sums and seemingly struggling with a little bit of long addition, Guillaume had to physically resist the temptation to lean other and note that he had failed to carry the one. "That shall be... hmm..." He double checked his work, and finally realised the one. "Ah. My apologies, Ser. That shall be seventy-two gold dragons and fifty-six silver stags."

Guillaume hadn't the foggiest idea what those numbers meant in any relevant sense except perhaps the words 'gold' and 'silver', so he simply pulled his pouch free and set it on the counter. "I am afraid I do not have any gold dragons, but I hope these will suffice?" He asked, pulling out a couple of septims and showing them to Tobho, who squinted to check the golden coin over.

"They shall do more than that," Tobho said quickly and produced a small set of scales and some small weights of gold with numbers etched into them. "If you wouldn't mind?" He asked politely with a gesture to one of the septims and the scales. With a small nod from Guillaume, Tobho picked one up, plopped it on one side of the scale and began to measure the weight of the gold within compared to his own weights. Mott hummed as he went about it, and tried, far more successfully this time, to accomplish his maths. "I deal with many currencies from the world, I only find myself glad you deal in gold. The equivalent is... ah... one hundred and twelve, if you permit me to round up?"

"I permit you, Master Mott," Guillaume said, opening the pouch and counting out the hundred or so septims needed, barely a fifth of gold he carried on his person alone. If only Tamriel knew just how gold heavy it was to have all these gold coins about, they could make a killing buying everything on the cheap here and importing it back.

Tobho Mott gave another toothy grin. "Oh, my great thanks, Ser. Your armour will be the envy of the city. It shall be more flexible than boiled leather, and stronger than the very walls built by the Conqueror."

"Stronger than common steel will be more than enough, Master Mott." Guillaume smiled again. Even if the armour wasn't up for the idle boasting of its smith, it would be a damn sight better than what he had on hand when his Prince had sent him over here, a measly shirt of brigandine. "Can you give me a rough idea of when it shall be ready."

"A single week shall be all I need, good Ser."

Guillaume thanked Tobho Mott and was about to leave as the great wooden doors of the shop were pushed open and a large, though young, man of ink black hair sauntered in, an ornate helm of gold and green in one hand. "Master Mott!" The man called out in a powerful voice. "When you're done with this fellow, I need my helm repaired. Damaged it in Highgarden in a spar and the local smith knew not how to fix it correctly."

Tobho Mott's expression changed in an instant from pleased with the deal with Guillaume to a scowl at the word of his work being defiled, only to swiftly return to an affable smile to the newly arrived man. "Of course, your grace. I will begin work on it as soon as I am able." He said and took the helm, looking at the damage with a stare before handing it to the serving girl who half sprinted off with it. "May I ask his grace what blow caused the damage?"

"Fossoway of the Green Apple struck it with a morningstar." The man answered casually, only now seeming to notice that Guillaume was eve there. "Ah, hello there. Do you know of Ser Jon Fossoway perchance?"

Guillaume blinked, he had no idea who anyone of note was in this land. "No, Ser, can't say I do."

The man just laughed. "And you don't know who I am either it seems, though I confess I know you not either, so we are both at fault." His smile was friendly and despite himself, Guillaume found himself charmed by the man. "Renly Baratheon, brother to our grand King Robert and Lord of Storm's End."

That caused Guillaume to pause for a moment. A prince stood before him. He recovered quickly, however. "Guillaume Malet. I am a mere knight, my lord."

"A mere knight? The greatest men I know are knights." Renly scoffed. "I have not heard of you, I admit, but that does not mean there will soon be songs sung of you. A knight unworthy of them would not have such fine tastes in armoursmiths." He flashed Tobho a smile, who was almost beside himself at the praise. "Are you sworn to anyone, Ser... Geeyam? I confess yours is not a name I have oft-encountered before, forgive my difficulties with it."

"Guillaume, my lord. My mother had quite the imagination. And, no. I am not sworn to this lord or that Lord. Recently returned from across the Narrow Sea as it happens." It had been his best idea of explaining his general ignorance of the current politics in this land, if only it would explain why he was also generally ignorant of the land as a whole.

Renly laughed at that, like he seemed to at everything, though this laugh was noticeably less genuine than the one before if only because Guillaume was used to the backroom dealings of High Rock. "A sellsword then? Golden Company? Or some other band of them?"

Already finding his excuse on thin ice, for he knew not any of the sellsword companies from Essos, Guilliman shook his head. "None of them either, my lord. I was more a guard of jumped up merchants than a soldier of fortune. More honourable than sacking cities I felt."

This time the mirth coming from the prince sounded more real. "Indeed it is, good Ser." Renly flashed another warm smile and looked back to Tobho Mott for a moment. "I leave my helm with you, master Mott, I know it will be gold well spent." And as the Smith bowed his head in thanks, he turned once more to Guillaume. "If your business here is done, would you ride with me, Ser Geeyam?"

Guillaume ignored the second failed attempt at his name and nodded gratefully. "It would be my honour, my lord, just I left my horse at the stable of the inn I'm staying at." This was certainly a struck of obscene luck. If he could befriend a brother of the King, it would make his given purpose here so much easier.

Renly waved off the concern. "No matter, I shall walk beside you then." He said and walked from the shop, Guillaume following behind.

Outside, where the stench of the city at once began infesting Guillaume's nostrils again, were a collection of men at arms in tabards of gold with a black and rampant stag embroidered on them. One was holding the reins of a rather attractive horse and kept holding on to them when Renly turned them down as the man offered them to him. "We walk from here on," Renly said to them curtly and his men quickly caught on, dismounting their own steeds to follow. "How long have you been back in the capital, Ser?"

"Only a few days, my lord," Guillaume said in answer. "Just felt right somehow, coming back now."

Renly hummed at that, quickly returning to his amicable smile. "You've picked a good time for it, Ser. There's like to be a grand tourney or some such soon."

"Oh?"

"Our dear Hand of the King passed not a month past. And now my kingly brother is traipsing up to the North to get his beloved Eddard Stark down here to take the shits for him as well." Renly said with a half genuine smile.

Guillaume had heard something about a hand or somesuch dying, some high ranked position in the ruling regime. He had also heard about the thing with shits, a rather crude term of phrase in all honesty. "How does that make this a good time?"

"Why? Because Robert cannot resist hosting a tournament if there's a decent excuse for one. Which this is."

A tournament? Now, this was something that Guillaume could most certainly use. "Oh, my lord? Any thoughts on when this will take place?"

"When Robert gets back I should think," Renly answered, giving Guillaume a wry smile. "Time enough for Mott to finish his work on your new armour. That is why you were there, correct?"

Guillaume nodded to the prince. "Plate was not the most comfortable of kit in Essos, so I sold it for more suitable lamellar." From what he had heard Essos was warmer than Westeros, so it was a valid excuse in his mind. "And lamellar is not like to be half so good at stopping a lance than good, solid plate."

"Yes, I'd say it is." Renly agreed. "Jousting or melee?"

"Melee I should think. Not much use for jousting in Essos."

Another laugh escaped Renly, while it might, like all the others, merely be put on, it was oddly disarming by its nature. "That shall likely pit you against mad Thoros. He's a nasty one when it comes to a fight, let me tell you. Crazy drunkard likes to set his sword alight with wildfire before he enters the field. The horses fear that and the riders too, more often than not. Wish you luck if you fight him, Ser Geeyam."

Inwardly, Guillaume sighed as it seemed that the man could never get his name right. But that mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. What did though, were the words about this Thoros. A flaming sword was nothing to be scared of unless it was treated with the most powerful of enchantments, which this one didn't seem like to be. "Thoros, I'll remember that name, my lord."

"See that you do," Renly said, holding up a hand to stop his small company at the point where the Street of Steel met the King's Road. "This is where I leave you I think, Ser Geeyam. I have other business to attend to as Master of Laws for my kingly brother. But I hope to see you again come the tourney. I will certainly be watching how well you compete in the melee." The brother of the King held out a hand for Guillaume.

Taking the hand, the two men shook and began to depart. "I thank you for your words, Prince Renly, I look forward to seeing yourself in the lists."

Renly laughed again as he walked off with his men, genuinely this time it seemed. "Make sure to place a bet on me, Ser, you will grow fat off of it!" He shouted and disappeared among the mass of people that milled about the King's Road, heading in the direction of the massive, vulgar fortress that was named for the red stone it was made of.

Dawdling in mild thought there for a short while, Guillaume himself set off along the King's Road, in the opposite direction, to the inn he was staying in. The day had been productive he felt, very productive. But it was nothing that would please his Prince, at least not yet. The fruits had been identified mayhaps, but now the seeds had to be extracted and planted. And though it was early days yet, Renly Baratheon seemed to be the ideal seed to grow the tree from.

He just hoped Boethiah would be patient enough to see it come to pass.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed the read. Feel free to leave a review.**

 **And now on to the bit where I waffle on and such.  
**

 **The first thing I think most of you will notice is that pretty much everything has changed about Guilliman Dinontus (now known as Guillaume Malet). This is for several reasons. Number 1 among them being that Guilliman was always intended to be that figure in black I included two chapters and then seemed to drop. Here we drop the facade and he's our main secondary champion character right from the get-go rather than a hanger-on of Severus who supposedly tricked them all into going to Westeros in the first place (grew to dislike that. The Empire would surely verify this with a few orc shamans rather than just trusting a Breton who wandered in).**

 **The name change is simply me finding out that Guillaume is the actual real life Breton (the people of Brittany who descend from a mixture of locals and British Celts fleeing the Saxons, hence the similar name to Briton) version of William. The surname was just because Malet is French surname while Dinontus sounds if anything vaguely Imperial.**

 **A slight thing to add while I'm at it. In original drafts, I had for where the first story was going to end up going. Guilliman was going to die in the Battle of the Blackwater, killed by Eadric as Guilliman tried to kill Stannis, this was while I still had plans to have Eadric stay with Tyrion and get down to gifting lycanthropy to the Mountain Clans.**

 **And do not fret, Severus shall still be coming to Westeros, just his reasons for going shall be a tad different as you can likely guess.**


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